Before The Worst
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: Pre-series – Appendicitis Sam / Big Brother Dean / Daddy Winchester / Awesome Bobby – Dean mentally sorted symptoms and associated diagnoses so he would be ready to triage and treat his little brother should Sam's sickness take a turn for the worst.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Pre-series – Appendicitis Sam / Big Brother Dean / Daddy Winchester / Awesome Bobby – Dean mentally sorted symptoms and associated diagnoses so he would be ready to triage and treat his little brother should Sam's sickness take a turn for the worst.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**Warnings**: Just the usual language...

**A/N**: For kkbelvis's birthday today; an expansion of one of her favorite drabbles of mine (_Truck Stop_) featuring her often requested appendicitis Sam. Happy Birthday, KK!

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><p><em>Before the worst...before too late... ~ The Script<em>

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><p>"M'sorry," Sam gasped, his weak voice hollowly echoing as his head was bent; his pale, sweaty face hovering over the public toilet.<p>

Dean shook his head from where he stood awkwardly positioned behind his 12-year old brother as they were both crammed into the small bathroom stall; Sam kneeling on the grimy floor while Dean leaned over him, supporting the kid's sagging head.

"Sorry for what?" Dean asked, glaring over his shoulder at the sounds of someone banging on the locked bathroom door; undoubtedly a driver of one of the many 18-wheelers parked on the lot outside the truck stop.

"Hey!" a man's voice yelled, muffled by the barrier. "I gotta take a piss!"

"Too bad," Dean replied dryly – because a sick kid brother would always take priority over a stranger's bladder – and turned back to Sam just as the kid threw up again.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean urged quietly, frowning at the heat radiating from his brother; even though the fever only confirmed what Dean had known since Sam had gotten up this morning.

The kid had just had that look; that hard-to-explain look that had instantly put Dean on alert.

And then when Sam had pulled on his hoodie, had refused breakfast, and had promptly fell asleep in the passenger seat before they had even left the motel parking lot, Dean had known it would only be a matter of time – about two hours – before the puking would begin.

And he had been right.

Dean sighed. "Sammy..."

Sam coughed, then spit; breathing heavily through his mouth as his head stayed down.

"M'sorry," he sobbed once more before Dean could say anything else.

Dean's frowned deepened. "For what, Sammy?"

"This," Sam responded simply, his breath hitching in his throat.

Dean smiled affectionately, recognizing his brother's apology for the embarrassment it was.

"It's okay, kiddo," he soothed and rubbed Sam's back for emphasis even as the angry pounding continued on the other side of the bathroom door. "It's not like I haven't seen you puke before, right?"

Sam groaned and then swallowed hard. "Don't say 'puke', Dean."

Dean chuckled through his own grimace of pain; his lower back muscles beginning to cramp from the awkward way he was literally hovering over Sam in the bathroom stall.

"Are we almost done here?" Dean asked, already knowing the answer and yet unable to stop the question because his back was quickly becoming a burning mass of knotted muscles.

Sam shook his head once, still curled over the toilet.

Dean nodded – no surprise there – and bit the inside corner of his mouth as he once again tried to shift to a more comfortable stance behind his brother.

"Hey!" another man's voice suddenly yelled on the opposite side of the bathroom door.

Sam flinched as Dean scowled over his shoulder.

"Is the door still locked?" the man from earlier asked.

"Yeah," the other man answered. "Annoying little fuckers."

"I'll get Pete," someone else announced.

And Dean could only assume Pete was the owner of this fine establishment – Big Daddy Pete's Truck Stop.

"They're m-mad," Sam reported needlessly, his distress evident in his voice.

"Eh, who cares?" Dean soothed, keeping his tone light even as he was getting a little mad – _a little pissed_ – himself.

Because they had enough to deal with right now without assholes yelling at them about something completely out of their control; it's not like Sam wanted to be throwing up.

The kid absolutely hated to puke; would usually exhaust himself trying to fight the urge and then would end up even sicker for his efforts.

Case in point...

For the past 20 minutes, Sam had been throwing up, and there was no way Dean was letting in an audience to witness the gory details.

It was already enough that the poor kid had hurled in the parking lot beside the Impala.

Dean shook his head at the memory – because that had been a close one.

Of course, if Sam had puked in the Impala, Dean would love him no less.

But still...

Dean sighed, remembering Sam's expression of misery as his little brother had looked up at him once Dean had crossed to the passenger side.

"Dean..." Sam had whimpered, right arm around his stomach as it had continued to cramp, threatening an encore performance.

"It's okay," Dean had soothed automatically and then had paused when Sam had stared past him.

Tears had instantly welled in the kid's eyes when Sam had realized he was being stared at by a few inconsiderate assholes nearby who had witnessed the entire scene.

Dean had glared heatedly over his shoulder and had flipped the gawkers off before turning back to Sam.

"It's okay, Sammy," he had assured his shy, sensitive little brother; stepping forward to block the assholes' view of Sam and to help the kid to his feet. "Let's just get you inside and wait for Dad, okay?"

Sam had nodded as Dean had eased him up from the passenger seat and then had maneuvered them both around the vomit splattered in the gravel beside the Impala.

They had entered the truck stop – attracting a few curious glances – and had been about six steps from the bathroom before Dean had felt Sam tense beside him; the kid's shoulders going rigid beneath Dean's arm and telling Dean all he had needed to know.

In the next instant, Dean had half carried, half pushed Sam into the bathroom and straight into the first stall; had heard Sam hurling again as he had turned back to lock the door before ending up where he was now – hovering behind Sam in the same stall.

Dean sighed and winced as his back muscles throbbed. "Hey, Sammy..."

Sam swallowed and shifted, his knees beginning to hurt from holding his position over the toilet. "Hmm..."

Dean opened his mouth to speak but stopped as another voice suddenly yelled from the small hall outside the bathroom door.

"What the fuck is going on in there?" the voice gruffly demanded.

"The door's been locked for almost half an hour, Pete," the man from earlier reported.

"That so?" Pete asked, and then banged on the locked door. "Hey! What – "

The voice and the banging suddenly stopped; followed by shocked, curious murmuring...and then silence.

"That's enough," a new voice ordered coolly, confidently; like it was used to being followed and dared anyone to disobey...because the voice's boots would love to kick somebody's ass.

Dean grinned; because he would've recognized that voice and that attitude anywhere.

"Dad's here," Dean whispered to Sam and felt his brother's sweaty head bob in agreement within his grasp as he still supported the kid's forehead.

"Jesus!" Pete hissed, and Dean could picture the man vigorously rubbing his hand as John released him from the bone-crushing grasp the oldest Winchester had used to stop Pete from banging on the door seconds earlier.

There was a beat of silence, and Dean knew the others – however many there were outside the bathroom by now – were sizing up John; were trying to determine if he was indeed a threat.

"Who the fuck are you?" Pete demanded, and a few other voices murmured their similar demands.

But John didn't answer.

Dean quirked a smile, imagining the others in the narrow hall exchanging nervous glances before their gazes flickered back to stare at the badass wonder of John Winchester.

"Dad's so cool," Dean commented quietly to Sam.

Sam hummed his distracted agreement; the quiet sound muffled by John's voice.

"Dean? You in there?"

Dean turned as much as he could in the cramped stall and glanced over his shoulder. "Yes, sir."

...which Dean knew John already knew.

For one thing, they were supposed to meet here; it was decided last night over dinner before they had separated at the diner – John going a couple towns over on a solo hunt while Sam and Dean had headed back to the motel to research the next hunt.

And for another thing, upon arrival John would have immediately checked the parking lot for the Impala and probably had seen the evidence splattered in the gravel on the passenger side that had led him straight to this bathroom.

"Is Sam with you?"

Dean scowled his annoyance at being asked such a stupid question.

Because where else would the kid be?

Seriously.

"Dean..." John called, a margin of alarm in his voice.

"Yes, sir," Dean confirmed and rolled his eyes. "Sammy's with me.

As if on cue, Sam curled over the toilet with a low moan.

Dean frowned, instantly refocusing on his brother. "Sammy..."

Sam's only response was to gasp and then gag.

Dean winced in sympathy and rubbed the kid's back.

There was silence on the other side of the bathroom door, and Dean knew John could hear Sam; knew their dad was only receiving auditory confirmation of what the oldest Winchester had already suspected based on what John had undoubtedly seen in the parking lot beside the Impala – that their youngest was one sick puppy.

"Wait a minute..." Pete commented, clearly startled and confused, and Dean could picture Pete putting two and two together...unlike his patrons. "Is that a kid throwing up in there?"

"Yeah," John answered brusquely, and Dean heard the distinct clank of John's lock pick set being removed from his pocket. "It's _my_ kid."

Dean nodded, identifying with the possessiveness in John's voice; knowing exactly how John felt because Sam was Dean's kid, too.

Sam coughed, spit, and then shifted; lifting his head. "Dean..."

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean answered, also shifting in the small space as it seemed Sam wanted to stand up.

"I think I'm done. And I can't sit here anymore. My legs hurt," Sam confessed hoarsely and braced his hands against the dingy toilet seat as he prepared to push himself to his feet.

"Bet so," Dean agreed, keeping his back pain to himself. "But wait a minute, okay? Let me help you."

Sam nodded, allowing Dean to lift him up and steady him just as the bathroom's doorknob began to rattle.

"Dad's coming," Dean reported, reaching to flush the toilet before opening the stall's door and guiding Sam over to the sink hanging on the far wall.

Sam nodded, recognizing the familiar sound of a lock being picked.

"What are you doing? I've got keys," Pete reminded John with a jangle of what he offered just as the lock turned with a click and the bathroom door opened.

"So do I," John replied dryly, pocketing his lock pick and actually smiling at the expression on Pete's face.

"Man, who _are _you?"

John didn't hesitate. "I'm Batman," he responded, and then entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him; locking it once again from the inside.

Dean grinned even as he carefully positioned Sam to stand over the sink – just in case – and reached for a handful of paper towels.

_I'm Batman._

That was awesome. He would have to remember that, so he could use it later himself.

Pete's laughter echoed in the hall outside the bathroom. "Alright, fellas. Show's over," he told the group of truckers. "Get your asses back on the road, huh?"

"I still gotta piss!" one man yelled.

"Me, too!" another one agreed.

"Not my problem," Pete answered sharply. "I ain't lettin' y'all bother a sick kid."

Dean nodded appreciatively at Pete's words – and at the sounds of the crowd reluctantly dispersing – and then glanced at John as he approached. "Hey, Dad."

John nodded his own greeting to Dean and then focused on Sam; his expression concerned as his eyes swept over his youngest and then back to Dean. "How long?"

Dean reached around Sam to turn on the faucet and wet the paper towels he held. "He's been throwing up for about 20 minutes, but I knew something was wrong when he got up this morning."

John nodded thoughtfully. "Something he ate?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't think so. He's got a fever. Plus, if it was dinner, he would've gotten sick last night. But he didn't. And he didn't eat breakfast, so..."

John nodded again, still staring at Sam.

Sam shifted under his father's gaze, used to being discussed by Dean and John like he wasn't standing _right there_ with them but unable to muster the energy to be annoyed.

Because he felt like complete and utter crap.

Sam swallowed and continued to lean over the sink; the enamel cracked and stained; the damp, sour odor drifting up from the drain doing nothing to settle his nausea.

"Maybe just a virus then," John concluded, still looking worried but sounding relieved; because they dealt with viruses all the time; part of life on the road.

It just sucked that Sam always seemed to be the most susceptible to them.

"Maybe," Dean agreed about the possibility of a virus and wrung the damp paper towels before shaking them out. "Sammy..."

Sam turned toward his brother's voice but then immediately turned back to the sink, choking out a strangled, distressed sound.

Dean frowned in recognition of what that sound meant. "Again? Really?"

Sam nodded jerkily and swallowed hard.

Dean and John exchanged glances.

Sam coughed. "Dean..."

"I know, Sammy. I know," Dean assured; passing the paper towels to John before falling into place beside Sam; rubbing his hand back and forth across the kid's quivering back.

Sam's breath hitched, and he swallowed again.

"It's okay, Sam," John soothed, folding the cool, damp paper towels and placing them on the back of his son's sweaty neck. "Just breathe, buddy."

"Breathe, but don't fight it," Dean amended, knowing exactly what Sam was doing.

John glanced at Dean and nodded at the advice; because he knew, too.

There was silence – no banging on the bathroom door, no loud angry voices; just the white noise of the running water mixed with the shallow pants and audible swallows of a 12-year old kid.

Sam took a shaky breath; his arms trembling as they braced against either side of the sink; his head dipping forward as he lost the battle with his rebelling stomach.

"D – " he began but was abruptly interrupted as his body lurched forward, retching watery vomit in the sink.

"Easy," Dean soothed, continuing to rub his brother's back.

Sam gasped noisily in response and then shuddered, his head bobbing forward.

Dean and John both instantly reached for their youngest; but it was Dean who slid his hand under Sam's bangs, blocking the kid from smacking his forehead on the faucet.

John quirked a sad yet proud smile as Sam sagged into Dean's touch; because nobody took care of Sam like Dean.

Several moments passed before Sam finished coughing and spitting and then sighed deeply.

Dean and John exchanged glances, both nodding their agreement that the latest wave of nausea had passed for their youngest.

"Dean..."

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean answered, removing the paper towels from Sam's neck and giving a final rub to his brother's back. "You good?"

Sam nodded. "I think so," he reported hoarsely.

"Good," Dean praised and watched as Sam cupped water in his small hand.

Sam exhaled shakily as he leaned forward to drink; taking a few cautious sips, then holding the cool liquid in his mouth before swirling it around and spitting it out.

"Ready?" Dean asked patiently.

Sam nodded again, splashing water over his mouth and down his chin before easing away from the sink and straightening to his full height; even if his full height still made him look like he was 10 instead of 12.

John reached to turn off the water as Dean grabbed a few dry paper towels and handed them to Sam.

Both father and big brother watched as their youngest dried his face and then blinked up at them.

Sam attempted a smile. "Hey, Dad."

John smiled in return at the casual greeting; like Sam hadn't just spent the past five minutes throwing up in the dirty sink of a truck stop bathroom. "Hey yourself, kiddo."

Sam's smile widened briefly at the affectionate tone and nickname before he winced and wrapped his right arm around his stomach.

John glanced at Dean and then back at Sam, frowning.

"My stomach hurts," Sam admitted shyly, ducking his head at the admission.

John snorted good-naturedly. "Yeah, I'd say we had already figured that part out," he teased and winked at Sam as he squatted in front of his youngest; taking in the kid's pale face and sweaty bangs.

"What else hurts, Sammy?" Dean asked, brushing Sam's bangs out of his eyes so they could see him better. "And don't bullshit us."

Sam swatted weakly at Dean's hand and scowled.

Dean chuckled. "Don't bitchface us, either."

Sam held the expression and then swallowed, wrinkling his nose before swallowing again.

Dean's smile instantly dropped. "Sammy..."

Sam shook his head carefully. "I'm okay," he assured.

"You don't look okay," John corrected, sliding his hand under Sam's damp bangs and feeling his son's overly-warm forehead. "How long have you had this fever?"

Sam shrugged.

John glanced at Dean.

"He didn't have it earlier this morning," Dean reported as John knew he would. "So, maybe just the past hour or so..."

John nodded, moving his hand to Sam's stomach and gently nudging the kid's arm away. "Let me see, Sammy."

Sam reluctantly moved his arm, glancing at Dean as his big brother reached toward him and gently squeezed the back of his neck in silent comfort.

Sam tried to smile his appreciation to Dean but only squinted against the pain and then actually flinched when John pressed against a particularly tender area near his lower right abdomen.

John paused, his concern instantly increased. "That hurt?"

Sam swallowed and nodded bravely. "Kinda."

John tilted his head. "Sammy..."

Sam shifted under his father's gaze. "Yes, sir," he confessed and once again wrapped his arm around his midsection. "It really does hurt right there."

John nodded and then looked at Dean; not wanting to scare Sam but needing his oldest to know this had the potential to be serious. "We'll need to keep a watch on that."

Dean returned the nod. "Yes, sir."

John sighed and then forced a smile as he glanced back at Sam. "I think you're okay for the most part, kiddo. You've just picked up one hell of a virus."

Sam scrunched his face. "Sorry, Dad."

John shook his head, his smile becoming softer and more genuine. "Not your fault, Sammy. Just one of those sucky parts of life, huh?"

Sam nodded and shifted on his feet, leaning a little more toward Dean and resting against his brother's side.

Dean wrapped his arm around the kid's shoulders, recognizing the slightly clingy gesture for what it was – proof of how tired and crappy Sam felt.

John recognized it, too.

"Alright, boys…" he began, his knees creaking as he stood up from where he had squatted in front of Sam. "I think maybe you two should head on over to Bobby's a little early while I finish up here."

Sam's eyes widened slightly. "Really?"

John nodded. "Really."

There was a beat of silence.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Should we be saying 'Christo' or something?"

John snorted. "No. I'm my usual charming self," he assured dryly and then paused, looking at Sam. "I'm just a little concerned about you, Sammy. And I don't think you should be on the road with a fever."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Since when? We've been on the road with fevers before."

"Yeah, well..."

John's voice faded; not wanting to unnecessarily scare Sam with his suspicions of something more serious because fever, vomiting, and abdomen tenderness could also just as easily – and probably more likely – be a stomach flu virus.

Sam had had such viruses before.

But something felt off this time.

Maybe it was paternal instinct...or something.

John sighed, his gaze flickering between his sons.

"I just think we should take it easy this time," he finally explained. "Make sure it's nothing more serious than a virus."

Dean nodded, hearing John's underlying message and mentally sorting symptoms and associated diagnoses so he would be ready to triage and treat his little brother should Sam's sickness take a turn for the worst.

Sam shifted uncomfortably against Dean's side and yawned. "Can we go?"

Dean chuckled and glanced down at his little brother. "In a hurry, princess?"

Sam shrugged and then shifted again restlessly. "Please?"

Dean's expression softened at the quiet, pleading tone of Sam's voice; all traces of teasing instantly gone. "Yeah, Sammy. We can go. Right, Dad?"

John nodded. "Absolutely," he agreed, affectionately rustling Sam's floppy hair.

Sam smiled tiredly.

John's attention lingered on his youngest as worry continued to quietly gnaw at his own stomach, and then he turned away, crossing to the bathroom door.

His arm still around his brother's shoulders, Dean nudged Sam forward to follow their dad; pausing just long enough for John to check the small hallway beyond the bathroom and then signal all was clear.

"Alright, Sammy..." Dean sighed, steering his brother out of the bathroom and into the main area of the truck stop. "Over the hills and through the woods to Uncle Bobby's house we go, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed quietly, hoping he was only imagining everybody staring at him as they walked toward the exit; wondering if the truckers had heard him throwing up earlier.

The thought made Sam's stomach cramp all over again, and he instinctively tucked himself closer to Dean as they continued to follow John through the truck stop.

Dean felt his brother tense beside him and glanced down. "You okay?"

Sam didn't respond.

Dean nodded, knowing the kid's latest mood swing had nothing to do with being sick and everything to do with being embarrassed.

"Tell you what..." Dean began as they finally exited the truck stop and entered the parking lot; the Impala and John's truck within sight. "What d'ya say shotgun picks music on the way to Bobby's house?"

Sam glanced up through his fringe of bangs. "Yeah?"

Dean nodded, Sam's hopeful excitement totally worth whatever crap he was about to subject himself to listening to for the next hour. "Yeah."

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><p><em><strong>TBC<strong> - I'm currently writing chapter two, so hopefully it will be ready to post by the end of the week..._


	2. Chapter 2

John stood at the rear of the Impala, opening its trunk with his spare key and scanning its contents with narrowed eyes until he found what he was looking for; the edge of the battered first aid kit peeking out from under a wool blanket Dean had inherited with the car.

John quirked a smile at the sight of the familiar green blanket – one he had had since his Marine days – and felt strangely nostalgic as he briefly remembered a time before Mary and kids and this life he now lived; this life fueled by whispers of grief and loneliness, of revenge and regret.

John felt his smile fade and reached for the first aid kit, wondering – not for the first time – if he was a bad father; if always searching for the next hunt and dragging his boys with him as he crisscrossed the country while doing so was the reason his sons – or at least his youngest – seemed to constantly get sick.

Before they had decided to have kids, Mary had given John "the speech"; the one about how children changed everything; about how kids needed safety and stability; needed nutritious food and a clean home; needed protection and love, and how they were going to give all of that and more to their kids.

And they had.

John and Mary had done damn good for those first four years.

But then...

John sighed, feeling a familiar ache in his chest; knowing he had failed miserably on the first four items of Mary's childrearing checklist since her death but hoping he had at least succeeded in fulfilling the last two – because he did love his boys and tried his best to protect them.

John sighed again – _enough of that_ – and opened the kit; his fingers skimming the various items before grasping the small plastic bottle of liquid Tylenol.

Since pills made Sam gag on a good day, John knew there was no way he – or even Dean – was going to be able to coax their youngest into taking any kind of medicine that wasn't liquid on a day when the kid had already thrown up multiple times.

In fact, experience had taught that even liquid Tylenol wasn't always a sure bet to stay put once Sam swallowed it down on days like today, but they had to try something.

John was already concerned enough about Sam's current condition without sending the kid down the road with a climbing fever.

John nodded in agreement with himself and set the first aid kit back in the trunk, glancing at his sons as they approached; Dean's arm still protectively wrapped around Sam's thin shoulders as the boys joined him at the rear of the Impala.

"Read my mind, Dad..." Dean commented, nodding toward the bottle John held to further emphasize his words as they were muffled by the loud groan of an 18-wheeler crawling past them on its way back to the Interstate.

John smiled fondly, _proudly_ – he and his oldest always seemed to be on the same wavelength, especially when it came to caring for a sick Sammy – and then frowned as he realized how light the medicine bottle felt in his grasp.

"Feels almost empty," John reported; removing the top and closing one eye as he peered into the bottle.

"Yeah, I know," Dean agreed. "Haven't had a chance to replace it since the last time Sam was sick."

John nodded, remembering Sam's sniffling and congestion from a couple weeks ago, and then smiled good-naturedly at his youngest. "You can never catch a break, can you kiddo?"

Sam smiled tiredly. "It's okay," he quietly assured, huddled inside his sweatshirt and still leaning against Dean as the boys continued to stand across from John at the rear of the Impala.

John swallowed, his smile faltering in the face of his pale, exhausted 12-year old – _because it was not okay_.

It was not okay for his youngest to be sick with a new ailment every other week.

It was not okay that Sam's immune system sucked even now because the kid had received most of his infant vaccines later than usual due to John's grief-induced neglect that first year after Mary's death.

It was not okay that Sam had never known his mother; had never experienced a warm, home-cooked meal; had never known what it was like to have a clean house and his own room.

And yet this was their life.

Sam throwing up for the past half hour in a truck stop bathroom and now being dosed with medicine out of the trunk of a car in a parking lot in hopes the kid could make it to the next stop – that was their life.

It was the only life Sam had known – was probably the only life Dean could remember – and John was sorry; _was so fucking sorry _that things weren't different.

But they weren't.

Things weren't different.

And they probably never would be.

John swallowed the apology that rose in his throat – because now wasn't the time – and forced his smile back in place.

Because that's what he did – he smiled for his boys...even when he felt like crying; even when he felt like begging their forgiveness for how inadequate he was as their father.

John glanced at Dean, not surprised to see his oldest tilt his head ever-so-slightly and narrow his eyes as though he knew John's thoughts.

Because Dean always knew; was always there to forgive and to grant second, third, and fourth chances; was always there to help shoulder the burden and carry the load without comment or complaint.

And somehow, that made this life more bearable; was more of a comfort to John than Dean would ever know.

John sighed, willing himself to pull it together as he noticed Sam was also staring at him, looking confused and maybe even a little scared by the prolonged silence.

John smiled encouragingly at his youngest.

Sam blinked but did not return the expression.

John shook his head, a little confused himself. "What's wrong, Sammy?"

Another 18-wheeler rumbled by as it left the truck stop parking lot and headed back to the highway.

Sam watched it go – clearly stalling – and then shifted from one foot to the other as his gaze flickered between John and the medicine bottle John still held. "You're not making me take that, are you?"

"Yes," Dean answered before John could even open his mouth. "You've got a fever, Sam."

"Not a big one," Sam countered, as though that detail would matter to either of the two people he had to convince in this argument. "It's just a small fever."

"Yeah, well..." Dean stepped closer to the Impala's trunk and lifted the lid of the green cooler sitting inside. "Small fevers have a way of growing into big-ass fevers with you," he reminded Sam, retrieving a bottle of water before turning back to face his little brother. "And I'm not a fan of you spontaneously combusting, so..."

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean – having had medicine literally poured down his throat enough by his big brother over the years to know that his efforts were wasted with Dean – and turned hopeful eyes to his dad, even as John was pouring the remaining dose of liquid Tylenol into the bottle's cap.

"Dad..."

"Save it, Sam," John replied dryly and held out the cap to his youngest.

Sam tucked his hands further inside the front center pocket of his hoodie and swallowed on reflex.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Don't do that, Sam," he warned, opening the water bottle in preparation to offer his brother an immediate chaser of the medicine. "Don't think about it. Just do it."

"It's cherry-flavored," John announced as though that wasn't obvious from the red color or the smell wafting up from the bottle's cap; as though the medicine being flavored would somehow make it more appealing.

"Cherry-flavored ass still tastes like ass, Dad," Dean wisely pointed out and then swiftly but carefully took the bottle cap from John's grasp and squatted in front of his brother, prepared to do battle. "Sam..."

"Dean..." Sam responded and then shook his head. "I can't."

"You can, and you will," Dean corrected and then softened his tone as tears sprang to Sam's eyes. "Sammy..."

"I don't wanna throw up anymore, Dean," Sam quietly confessed, his gaze flickering to John and then quickly away as if he was embarrassed by his father having to hear this.

"I know," Dean soothed. "But I don't want to get to Bobby's and find out your fever's gone through the freakin' roof, either. I mean...do you know the amount of bitching I'll have to deal with if I show up on Bobby's doorstep with you roasting alive from a raging fever? He'll never let me hear the end of it."

Sam quirked a reluctant smile because he knew Dean was only half teasing. Uncle Bobby – loveable grump that he was – enjoyed bitching like it was his hobby, especially when it involved the care of either Winchester brother.

An 18-wheeler's brakes squealed painfully loud across the parking lot.

Welcoming the distraction, Sam turned in the direction of the sound and scrunched his face. "That's loud," he commented needlessly.

Dean rolled his eyes, recognizing one of Sam's avoidance strategies. "Thank you, Captain Obvious," he remarked and then lightly tapped the top of the water bottle against Sam's chest; a silent order for his little brother to refocus and stop stalling.

John sighed. Patience had never been his strength. "Hey. Front and center, Sam," he ordered, crisply snapping his fingers inches from Sam's face as he said the words.

Sam startled and glanced at John, still standing behind Dean, and then looked back at Dean.

Dean swallowed a sigh at the expression now on the kid's face – sometimes wishing John wouldn't try to "help" him with Sam – and then smiled at his brother.

"Alright, Sammy. Let's do this, huh?" Dean asked, glancing down at the medicine he still held. "You with me?"

Sam swallowed – looking like he wanted to throw up from just thinking about it – but slowly nodded; because he knew Dean wasn't going to let this go.

"Yeah, okay," Sam reluctantly conceded and reached for the Tylenol's bottle cap.

"That's my boy," Dean praised and winked at his little brother as Sam held the medicine mere inches from his mouth. "Now remember...take it quick...straight back like a shot of liquor."

John chuckled. That was interesting advice to give to a 12-year old.

"And then we'll chase it with water, and we'll be done," Dean concluded, nodding his encouragement to Sam.

John smiled as he continued to watch his sons in front of him; wondering if Dean realized he had just spoken in plural – _we_ – even though only Sam was taking the medicine.

Sam sighed and then did as he was instructed, closing his eyes and tossing back the medicine like it was indeed a shot of whiskey; keeping his eyes closed as he reached for the water bottle he knew would be there.

As promised, Dean exchanged the water bottle for the now empty medicine bottle cap and nodded his approval. "Good job, Sammy."

Sam's only response was a noisy swallow of water.

John frowned, taking the cap from Dean and placing it back on the Tylenol bottle before closing the first aid kit.

"Go easy, kiddo," John advised, a little worried by how eagerly Sam was gulping the water; knowing his youngest had to be thirsty after all the vomiting he had done, but still...

Dean seemed to agree. "Alright, dude. Chill with the water..." he commented, simultaneously taking the bottle from Sam and standing up.

Sam swallowed his last mouthful of the refreshing liquid and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Sorry," he apologized, almost breathless from how quickly he had drank the water after the dose of medicine. "I'm just really thirsty."

"Wow. Really?" Dean asked sarcastically and chuckled, placing the lid back on the water bottle.

John smiled, never ceasing to be amazed how seamlessly Dean could switch from attentive, gentle caretaker to obnoxious big brother...and then back again.

"Alright, kiddo," Dean sighed, quickly palming Sam's forehead to check his brother's fever; mentally storing the degree of warmth he felt so he would have a baseline to compare to when he checked Sam again later.

John watched, marveling at the wonder of his oldest; thankful – _so incredibly thankful_ – that even though he had failed his youngest, Sam still had Dean to take care of him, to know him better than any mother could ever know her child.

_Take your brother...and don't look back_, John had told four-year old Dean that night their house was burning around them – and it seemed Dean had taken John at his word; had taken Sam as his own on November 2, 1983, and had not looked back since.

It was comforting even as it was heartbreaking.

John sighed – his thoughts scattered by yet another passing 18-wheeler pulling out of the parking lot – and refocused on his sons. "Boys..."

Dean nodded, already knowing what John was going to say. "I agree," he stated and then glanced at his brother. "Let's hit the road, Sammy."

Sam blinked up at his father and brother and wrinkled his nose, his hand rubbing across his stomach.

Dean and John exchanged glances.

"Sam..." Dean began warningly.

"I'm okay," Sam quickly replied even as he swallowed hard.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Dude. If you throw up in my car because you chugged all that water..."

John grimaced at the thought. Because although Dean undoubtedly loved his little brother, John honestly didn't know how his oldest would react if the kid puked in the Impala.

Just the thought made John want to shudder.

Dean sighed. "You sure you're good for now?" he asked, giving his brother a once-over and not liking that Sam's hand continued to hover over his stomach.

Sam swallowed. "I don't know. I think so."

Dean scowled, communicating his opinion of that hesitant, ambiguous answer.

"Sam..." John called, not missing that the kid's hand was over the right side of his abdomen; the side Sam had said hurt the worst when John was checking him over earlier in the truck stop's bathroom. "What's wrong?"

Sam shrugged, obviously trying to be brave. "It just hurts."

John frowned. He really, _really_ didn't like this. "Worse than before?"

Sam shook his head once. "No, sir. 'Bout the same."

John nodded and glanced at his oldest meaningfully.

Dean arched an eyebrow, receiving his father's message loud and clear – _I need to talk to you...alone._

Dean glanced at his brother, uneasy that whatever John had to say was not meant for Sam to hear. Not that he and John didn't routinely discuss things not intended for 12-year old ears, but still...

Sam blinked up at Dean, tucking his arms back inside his hoodie. "What?"

"Nothing," Dean replied casually, digging the Impala's keys from his jeans pocket. "I'm just wondering if I should let you ride up front or in the trunk."

Sam laughed. "Dean..." he scoffed, rolling his eyes and drawing out the one-syllable name into two-syllables; his voice slightly whiny in that way younger siblings did when they knew their older siblings were teasing them.

"I mean it, Sam," Dean warned; his tone and expression the perfect balance between playful and serious. "If you hurl in my car, I will kick your sick, scrawny ass. You hear me?"

Sam laughed again and smiled, knowing Dean was joking – _kind of_ – but still glanced at their father as though John was his backup. "Daaaad..."

John chuckled, wondering if his boys knew how much it meant to him when they allowed him to join in their banter. "You'll be okay," he assured his youngest confidently. "The trunk is well-ventilated."

Sam's eyes widened half a second before Dean started laughing; neither boy having expected that response from their dad.

"Oh, man..." Dean gasped as he laughed and then smiled at John. "That was awesome!"

John nodded his appreciation of Dean's praise and then chuckled again, truly amused at the shocked expression still on Sam's face.

"Relax, Sam," John soothed, reaching across the space that separated him from his youngest and squeezing the kid's bony shoulder. "You'll be fine. It's not that far to Bobby's from here, and you know what you feel like before you throw up. Just tell Dean if you need to stop, okay?"

Not that John expected Dean to need the warning; because knowing his oldest and how attentive Dean was to his little brother – especially when the kid was already sick – John suspected Dean would probably know Sam was about to hurl even before Sam did.

John's attention flickered between his sons, comforted again by how close they were; that sometimes it seemed they literally felt each other's pain or distress...like twins four years apart.

John smiled and sighed, noticing Sam still staring at him. "Okay?" he asked his youngest meaningfully.

Sam nodded and glanced back at Dean. "Okay."

Dean returned the nod. "Okay," he agreed and handed over the Impala's keys to his brother. "Guess I'll let you ride up front then. Just get in on my side..." – so the kid wouldn't have to see the chunky, pukey mess he had made in the gravel earlier on the passenger side – "...and go ahead and start looking through the cassettes to find what you want to listen to."

Sam smiled eagerly – clearly excited about the privilege of choosing the music – and turned away from his brother and father; unlocking the driver's side door of the Impala and crawling in.

John waited for Sam to pull the driver's door closed before speaking. "Dean..." he began, waiting for his oldest to stop watching Sam through the back glass of the Impala and look at him. "You're not kicking his ass if he throws up in your car."

Dean huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes. "Duh, Dad," he replied. "I was just messin' with him."

John nodded and quirked a smile; watching as Dean glanced again at Sam through the Impala's back glass as the kid had slid over to the passenger side and was sitting with his head bowed, undoubtedly sorting through the box of outdated cassettes in his lap.

The sight loosened some of the anxiety building in John's chest, and he sighed loudly.

Dean refocused on John and narrowed his eyes; recognizing that sound and instantly remembering that Sam was safely tucked inside the Impala for a reason – because John wanted to talk..._alone_.

"Okay..." Dean began warily, staring straight at his dad. "Let's hear it. Lay it on me."

John's smile widened; proud that he could always count on his oldest to face a situation – a hunt, an injury, an illness...whatever life brought – head on.

Kind of reminded John of himself...

"Dad..." Dean prompted, continuing to stare at John expectantly.

John sighed again. "I'm worried, Dean," he stated simply and then shrugged self-consciously. "Really worried."

Dean arched an eyebrow, not used to John being so open about his concern and a little unnerved by the admission.

"Okay," Dean replied casually, even as his heart was beginning to beat faster. "Worried about what?" he asked, glancing once again through the Impala's back glass to check on Sam; frowning slightly when he saw the kid squirming against the passenger side door like he couldn't get comfortable.

John followed Dean's gaze. "Him."

Dean glanced at his father and then back at Sam. "Well, yeah," he responded laconically, continuing to watch his brother in the passenger seat. "Me, too. But he'll be fine, Dad. He's had viruses like this before. And it's messy and gross and totally not how I like to spend my Fridays, but still...it's just a virus."

John shrugged uncertainly. "Unless it's not a virus..."

Dean cut his eyes at his dad, not liking the way his own stomach twisted at that ominous suggestion. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, worry making his tone sharp.

"Think about it," John instructed impatiently, his tone matching Dean's for the same reason. "Loss of appetite, relatively sudden onset of fever along with vomiting and abdominal pain...especially in the right lower side..."

Dean's eyes widened. "Whoa...wait a minute. You think Sam has appendicitis?"

John nodded. "Maybe. His symptoms certainly fit."

"His symptoms fit a virus, too," Dean countered reasonably.

"Yeah," John agreed. "But I don't know. I have a feeling about this."

Dean frowned; dread and borderline panic beginning to blossom in his chest. "Crap."

John nodded. "Yeah, I know. So that's why I'm sending you two to Bobby's. I want Sam off the road in case this turns out to be what I think it is." He paused. "Just don't say anything to Sammy yet. I don't want to scare him."

"Scare _him?_" Dean repeated incredulously. "What about me? You're freaking me out, Dad!"

John chuckled despite their situation; sometimes still startled by how wound up Dean got about anything concerning Sam.

"No need to freak out just yet, Dean," John soothed his oldest. "We won't know for several more hours if we're dealing with appendicitis or just another stomach bug. The point is...I wanted you to know what I was thinking so you could keep an extra close watch on your brother. Because if this turns out to be what I think it is – "

"I know," Dean interrupted, not needing the potential urgency of the situation explained to him. "We'll need to get Sam to a hospital."

"Exactly," John agreed, not blinking as his oldest stared back at him.

Dean sighed and then glanced at Sam again through the Impala's back glass; seeing his brother was now still as he leaned against the passenger side door; slightly curled in on himself the way the kid usually did when he was sleeping.

"Guess we'll get going..." Dean commented, suddenly anxious to be with Sam; to be _right beside him_ to better monitor the kid's condition.

John nodded, understanding the meaning beneath Dean's words. "Sounds good." He paused. "Drive safe. And call Bobby on the way to let him know you and Sam are coming a little earlier than he expected."

"Yes, sir," Dean replied, grabbing a fresh bottle of water from the green cooler before closing the Impala's trunk.

"And call me when you get there," John instructed, still standing at the rear of the Impala as he watched Dean cross to the driver's side door.

"Will do," Dean promised. "You'll be there later tonight?"

"Yeah," John confirmed, turning and walking the few steps to his truck parked beside the Impala. "I need to interview a couple folks in town and then swing by the coroner's office and the library and then I'll be headed to Bobby's."

Dean nodded that he had heard John's plan for the afternoon.

John paused by the passenger side of the Impala, careful not to step in the drying puddle of vomit Sam had left earlier in the gravel.

"Is he sleeping?" John asked his oldest, peering at Sam through the window.

"Think so," Dean answered, ducking slightly so he could see his brother from the driver's side window. "He's had kind of a rough morning."

"Yeah," John agreed and then sighed, still clearly worried about his youngest. "Well...let him sleep for now but make sure he eats at least a little something for lunch once you boys get to Bobby's. And make sure you push the fluids and the Tylenol. You know how easily Sam gets dehydrated when he's like this and how quickly his fevers spike. And – "

"Dad..." Dean interrupted, quirking a smile at John's rambling list of how to take care of Sam; like Dean couldn't write a book of his own on that subject; like Dean didn't know Sam better than anyone else. "I know."

John nodded. "I know you know," he conceded. "It just makes me feel better to remind you."

Dean chuckled, because he knew that feeling; could remember doing the same to John just a couple weeks ago when Sam was sick with a cold. Dean had just been going to take a quick shower, and yet he had spent at least ten minutes outlining instructions to his dad about what to monitor while Sam was sleeping and what to do if the kid woke before Dean had finished in the bathroom.

An 18-wheeler rumbled by, scattering Dean's thoughts.

He blinked.

"Alright, Dad..." Dean sighed, reaching for the Impala's door handle. "We'll see you later tonight."

John nodded, opening the driver's side door of his truck and climbing into the cab. "Call me if something changes before then. Otherwise I'll be in touch."

"Yes, sir," Dean replied and nodded his goodbye to John as his dad pulled his door shut, cranked the truck's engine, and drove away; merging with the line of 18-wheelers in the parking lot and then disappearing into the highway beyond the truck stop.

Dean sighed.

There were only a few times in his life that he could remember wishing his father was wrong – _"Dean, Mommy's not coming back..."_ – and now was certainly one of them.

Because Sam had to be okay; had to be suffering from just a virus instead of something more serious...something that required surgery to fix.

Dean sighed again as his conversation with John continued to echo in his head and opened the Impala's driver's side door.

"Sammy..." he called, climbing in and slipping the water bottle under the seat as he settled behind the wheel and grabbed the keys from where Sam had left them earlier in the middle of the bench seat. "Sam..."

Sam didn't budge.

Dean cranked the engine – the familiar rumble briefly soothing his anxiety – and then glanced back at Sam; smiling fondly at the kid still curled against the passenger side door with his hands predictably tucked inside the front center pocket of his hoodie.

"They're so cute when they're sleeping," Dean commented cheekily to himself, but his smile faded as his eyes swept over his brother; noticing the lingering paleness, the sweaty bangs, and the lines of discomfort wrinkling Sam's forehead even as the kid slept.

Dean sighed. "Sammy..." he called a little louder, once again checking the kid for fever.

Sam instantly startled awake, visibly flinching at the feel of a cool hand on his forehead, and then winced, wrapping his arm around his stomach at the jarring motion.

Dean frowned. "Hey. You okay over there?" he asked, even as he could feel Sam's continuing fever; not higher but not lower, either.

Sam blinked drowsily. "Yeah."

Dean arched an eyebrow at the quiet, hoarse response; sliding his hand down to cup Sam's jaw, which was also overly-warm. "That wasn't very convincing, Sammy."

Sam swallowed and then shifted in the passenger seat. "I'm just tired. And my stomach hurts."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Like 'I'm gonna hurl' hurt, or – "

"No," Sam quickly assured and wrinkled his nose. "I mean...I kinda feel like that...like maybe I'm gonna throw up again...but not really. I just can't get comfortable."

Dean nodded sympathetically, the slight whine to Sam's response speaking volumes about just how crappy his little brother felt.

"I know, kiddo. I'm sorry," Dean soothed, gently squeezing the back of Sam's neck. "But we'll be at Bobby's in about an hour and then you can rest and hopefully start feeling better, okay?"

Sam swallowed again and nodded.

Dean smiled encouragingly and then glanced at the box of cassettes in the floorboard on the passenger side. "Did you decide which one?"

Sam followed Dean's gaze and then looked back at his brother. "I don't really feel like listening to music right now," he quietly admitted and then shrugged apologetically. "Sorry."

Dean nodded his understanding; silently cataloguing yet another sign of sick kid brother. "That's cool," he responded casually. "Sometimes I don't feel like listening to music, either. And if you don't feel good, you don't feel good."

Sam swallowed and shifted again, wincing as the movement caused a stab of pain in his right side. "I really don't feel good," he confirmed miserably. "Like _really_."

Dean quirked a smile. "Like totally and for sure?" he asked, doing his best Valley Girl impersonation; complete with sing-song accent, wide eyes, and tilted head.

Sam smiled tiredly and shoved Dean's shoulder. "Shut up."

Dean chuckled. "You shut up," he returned; watching as Sam continued to shift restlessly in the passenger seat; the kid's right arm resuming its protective hold over his stomach.

Sam sighed and then glanced at Dean as he realized his brother was staring at him. "What?"

"Nothing," Dean responded. "I was just wondering if you had ants in your pants."

Sam rolled his eyes, wondering how his big brother could be so cool and yet so lame. "No," he replied and then scrunched his face against a wave of nausea. "I just can't get comfortable in this stupid seat."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "You insulting my girl?"

Sam laughed lightly. "No. I'm just sayin'."

"Yeah, well...maybe you should lie down," Dean suggested seriously.

Sam shook his head. "I don't think that'll help."

"Dude, how could it _not_ help?" Dean countered, reaching toward Sam; snagging his brother's sleeve and pulling the kid toward him.

Sam resisted, weakly pushing against his brother.

Dean scowled his annoyance. "What's with you?"

"Nothing. I just..." Sam swallowed, his sensitive stomach not liking all the jostling around he was currently doing. "I just don't feel good. And I don't wanna throw up on you."

"Bitch, please," Dean scoffed. "It wouldn't be the first time. And besides, you can throw up on me – just not my car."

Sam gave Dean a mini bitchface. "I remember."

"Good," Dean praised dryly. "Now bring your scrawny ass over here."

Sam sighed, hesitating a few more seconds before allowing Dean to pull him across the seat. "Thanks, Dean," he whispered shyly as he scooted closer to his brother.

"Thanks for what?" Dean asked as Sam eased himself down. "For being awesome?"

Sam laughed softly; carefully stretching out his small body and then bending his knees slightly; the Impala's front bench seat still the perfect fit for him.

Dean waited patiently, watching as Sam settled beside him; the kid's head now resting on Dean's thigh. "Better?"

"Kinda," Sam responded, wincing as he shifted again on the seat; his right arm still wrapped around his side and over his stomach.

Dean frowned, increasingly uneasy over Sam's constant protectiveness of his right side and the kid's inability to find a comfortable position, even now that he was lying down.

"It's about an hour or so to Bobby's," Dean reported, checking his rearview mirrors before easing the Impala into the line of 18-wheeler traffic headed out of the truck stop's parking lot and back toward the highway.

"'Kay," Sam replied drowsily, closing his eyes and sighing; seeming to relax more than he had all day now that he was resting against Dean.

Dean nodded knowingly to himself; because Sam had always been a bit clingy when he didn't feel well; had always been eager to be close to his big brother.

"If you need to stop, let me know," Dean reminded Sam, instinctively placing his right hand over his brother's chest to steady the kid on the seat as the Impala bounced over a pothole and onto the Interstate. "Sammy...you hear me?"

Sam's only response was deep, even breaths.

Dean quirked a smile. "Told ya," he gloated good-naturedly to a dozing Sam; having known all along if the kid would lie down, he would finally get the sleep his body craved.

Dean sighed – beginning to relax a little himself now that Sam was resting comfortably against him – and left his arm protectively draped over his brother; his right hand loosely splayed in the center of the kid's chest as he steered the Impala in the direction of Bobby's house and drove.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC <strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

It had unexpectedly started raining about 20 minutes into their drive to Bobby's house; the drops' rhythmic patter on the Impala's windshield and the equally rhythmic sweep of the Chevy's wipers only adding to the familiar, soothing sounds of the car's tires as they hissed on the wet pavement along with the Impala's engine as she rumbled down the highway.

It was the perfect lullaby as Sam continued to sleep; curled up on his left side across the Impala's bench seat; his head resting on Dean's leg; his knees slightly drawn toward his chest while his arms crossed over his stomach; like he was either cold or in pain.

Dean frowned – not liking either possibility – and hoped the Tylenol he had given Sam before they had left the truck stop parking lot would kick in soon and help relieve some of the kid's discomfort.

In the meantime, Dean readjusted the car's heat vents to blow more directly on his brother.

But if the warm air made a difference, Sam made no indication of it; instead remaining motionless on the seat; his arms still wrapped around his midsection; his face simultaneously pale and flushed – one of the hallmarks of sickness.

Dean sighed; glancing at the road and then back down at his brother – having lost count of how many times he had checked on the kid since they had left the truck stop – and then refocused on the road; thankful that Sam was at least resting and hoping the rain would slack off by the time they reached Bobby's...because Dean really didn't want to transfer a sick Sam from the Impala to the older hunter's house in the rain.

But for now, it continued to pour...and Dean continued to drive; his right foot on the gas pedal while his left was planted against the floor mat as his cell phone balanced on his knee; having tried to call Bobby twice before now and receiving a busy signal both times.

...which was really starting to piss Dean off.

Dean sighed his frustration; realizing their uncle was a vital source of information and that hunters from all over the country called for his advice and expertise...but still feeling irritated that he couldn't get in touch with Bobby when they needed him and couldn't give the older hunter a heads up that they were coming to crash at his house earlier than expected because Sam was sick.

Dean cringed slightly as he remembered just how sick Sam had been hardly an hour ago in the truck stop's bathroom and sincerely hoped the kid would not have a repeat performance – not at Bobby's and certainly not on the road.

Because while Dean would always take care of Sam no matter what, tending to – and cleaning up after – a puking little brother was one of Dean's least favorite big brother responsibilities.

Plus just the thought of Sam throwing up in the Impala...

Dean cringed again – unsure of how he would react if that actually happened – and then reached for his phone still balanced on his left knee; redialing Bobby's number and turning on the speaker function.

Dean's left hand then returned to the steering wheel – his knuckles white and stiff from their tight grip due to the driving conditions – while his right arm remained curled around Sam; his right hand splayed protectively across his little brother's chest as the kid continued to sleep beside him.

As the phone rang, Dean glanced down at the head resting on his denim-clad thigh and briefly checked Sam's fever – feeling the kid's overly warm forehead and damp bangs – before resuming his hold on his brother; hoping Sam wouldn't rouse until they were safe and settled at Bobby's.

And then would begin the battle of trying to get the kid to eat and drink something. Because while Dean knew his brother didn't have an appetite, he also knew Sam had skipped breakfast and had barely eaten dinner the night before. Plus, with all the vomiting Sam had done over the past hour, the kid definitely needed to replenish fluids.

_Make sure he eats at least a little something for lunch once you boys get to Bobby's. And make sure you push the fluids. You know how easily Sam gets dehydrated when he's like this..._

Dean nodded his agreement with the echo of John's words from earlier; their dad having given anxious reminding advice before they had left the truck stop parking lot.

"Dean..."

Dean startled at the sound of the familiar gruff voice filling the Impala and calling his name; belatedly realizing that Bobby had finally answered his phone. "Hey, Bobby."

"How's Sam?" Bobby asked without returning the greeting; his clipped tone implying he already knew the answer to his question.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "How did – "

" – been on the phone with your daddy for the past 20 minutes," Bobby explained, and Dean could picture the older hunter shaking his head in annoyance. "Had to listen to him list out what I should do and what to keep watch on, acting like I ain't never took care of a sick kid before," he further groused about his conversation with John. "Damned idjit."

Dean smiled; strangely comforted by Bobby's ranting and yet also feeling the need to defend John. "Dad's just worried."

"I could tell," Bobby replied; his tone softening.

Because based on what John had told him, there was reason to worry about the condition of their youngest, and he couldn't blame the oldest Winchester for being a little more overbearing than usual. After all, appendicitis was nothing to screw around with.

"Did Dad tell you what he thinks might be going on with Sam?" Dean asked; glancing at his brother to make sure the kid was still asleep and not unintentionally eavesdropping.

"Yeah," Bobby confirmed about John sharing his suspicion of Sam having an inflamed appendix.

Dean sighed. "I don't like it, Bobby," he quietly confessed. "Kinda got a bad feeling about it..."

Bobby nodded; hearing the masked anxiety in Dean's voice and having learned long ago not to question the sixth sense Dean had always had when it came to Sam.

But still...

"Sam will be alright," Bobby assured John's oldest; knowing better than to make such broad promises but unable to stop himself. "We'll keep a watch on him."

Dean nodded his agreement; his gaze flickering to his rearview mirror and then back to the road as the rain continued to pour.

"How's the little squirt right now?"

Dean chuckled lightly at the nickname Bobby used to call Sam when the kid was younger and glanced down at his brother still stretched out on the Impala's bench seat and resting against him. "He's got a fever, but he's sleeping."

"Good," Bobby praised. "Rest is the best medicine next to whiskey."

Dean smiled at the old hunter's wisdom; knowing Bobby was only half joking.

"Has he thrown up anymore?"

"No," Dean answered, knowing Sam would be beyond embarrassed if the kid knew he and Bobby were discussing such things about him.

"Good," Bobby repeated. "But that don't mean he won't..."

Dean wrinkled his nose at Bobby's warning. "Yeah. I know," he agreed dryly; because truthfully, he fully expected another round of vomiting once Sam woke up.

After all, Sam only slept with his arms around his stomach when he was nauseous; as if he was trying to ward off the inevitable even in sleep. And the kid had slept in that position since they had left the truck stop almost half an hour ago.

Dean sighed; already dreading Sam being sick again and hoping once more that the kid wouldn't wake up until they reached Bobby's house.

There was a beat of silence; the Impala rumbling down the highway as the wipers continued to sweep the sheets of rain from the windshield.

"It's almost lunchtime," Bobby randomly informed; sounding more like a motherhen than a gruff hunter. "You boys hungry?"

"Well, I am," Dean admitted. "But Sam..."

Bobby chuckled at the implication as Dean's voice faded. "Yeah, I figured." The hinge of a cabinet door creaked. "But I've got some soup here. Chicken and stars..."

Dean smiled at the mention of a sick Sam's usual meal of choice. But that type of soup was primarily reserved for when the kid was congested with a cold. If Sam ate that now, they would definitely see it again within minutes.

"How 'bout crackers?" Dean suggested instead.

"Yeah," Bobby confirmed; his voice muffled by the sounds of various items being shoved aside in the cabinet. "Got a whole box right here."

"We'll start there," Dean replied; feeling like he was outlining a plan of attack. "If he manages to keep down the crackers, then maybe we'll try the soup at dinner."

"Sounds good," Bobby agreed. "And I've got apple juice..."

"Of course you do," Dean praised and then smiled; always strangely touched when reminded that Bobby usually kept his and Sam's favorite items stocked in his pantry and fridge at all times. "Maybe Sam can have that at dinner, too. But for now – "

" – ginger ale," Bobby interrupted knowingly.

"Yeah," Dean responded. "The flatter the better."

"Takin' care of it right now," Bobby assured over the hiss of a broken bottle seal.

"Thanks," Dean replied genuinely; truly grateful that Bobby never failed at being the perfect proverbial Boy Scout – always prepared for anything.

Speaking of...

"I hope you have some children's liquid Tylenol stashed somewhere, too," Dean commented casually. "Because I gave Sam the last dose we had before we hit the road..."

"Got it covered," Bobby replied smoothly – because that was an easy item to keep stocked; it's not like anybody except Sam used that particular medication at his house.

Dean chuckled. "Wow. Thanks, Bobby," he told the older hunter again. "You're awesome."

"Damn right I am," Bobby heartily agreed; his smile clearly heard in his voice. "Now get your asses here."

_...so I can take care of you. _

Dean smiled; hearing Bobby's unspoken words as clearly as if he had said them and feeling comforted by the assurance of the older hunter's support. "We're on our way."

"How far out?" Bobby checked; the slamming of cabinet doors muffling his voice.

Dean shrugged. "Maybe another half hour or so; didn't expect it to be raining..."

The sound of Bobby rummaging through one of the kitchen's drawers was Dean's only answer.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Bobby..."

"I heard ya," Bobby replied; sounding preoccupied as his search became louder; various utensils being shoved aside in the drawer. "Where the hell is the damn can opener?"

Dean chuckled and was about to offer unhelpful, smartass advice when Sam began to unexpectedly stir under his hand; the kid having been motionless since they had left the truck stop but now lethargically squirming on the Impala's bench seat while wrapping his arms tighter around his stomach and swallowing audibly.

Dean frowned; instantly recognizing signs of trouble even before Sam slurred his name.

"Is that Sam waking up?" Bobby asked, having heard the kid's groggy voice in the background over the phone.

"Yeah," Dean replied distractedly; his gaze flickering between the road and his brother as Sam weakly pushed against him; trying to sit up. "Sammy..."

"Dean..." Sam groaned; his tone panicked as he leaned on one elbow and once again swallowed; the effort and frequency with which he was repeatedly doing so indicating he was clearly trying to keep something down that wanted to come up.

"Shit..." Dean hissed; his own stomach knotting at the realization of what was about to happen. "Hang on, Sammy..." he urged his brother and started scanning the highway for a good place to pull over in the rain. "Just hang on, kiddo..."

"I can't," Sam miserably responded and then made a strangled sound – a cough that resembled a gag – and then swallowed once more. "Oh, god..." he moaned – welling tears of distress and the swell of sickness in his throat making his voice crack. "Dean..." he called frantically and then coughed again. "Dean. I can't..."

"Yes, you can," Dean countered; his tone sharp with worry and dread as he heard the desperation in his brother's voice; willing Sam to hang on but knowing the kid couldn't prevent what was about to happen.

Because when the body wanted to throw up, it threw up.

Willpower and location be damned.

"Dean..."

"Just one more sec, Sammy..."

"What's going on?" Bobby finally demanded over the phone; having heard the urgency in Sam's voice when he had called for Dean just seconds before; having heard Dean's plea for his brother to hang on; and having heard Sam's tearful declaration that he couldn't.

Which probably meant...

"Balls," Bobby cursed under his breath; knowing exactly what situation the boys were about to face and wishing he could be there to help them.

Because ready or not, it was about to get messy in the Impala.

Bobby cringed at the thought.

As if to confirm his suspicions, Sam suddenly gagged; the sound loud and painful as the kid finally lost his internal battle against the nausea that had plagued him since he had woken up that morning and had lingered since the truck stop bathroom; his red-tinged vomit – thank you, cherry-flavored children's Tylenol – now completely coating the Impala's dash.

"Whoa!" Dean yelled in reaction to the abrupt force with which Sam threw up and jerked the Impala's steering wheel in his effort to reach his brother as the kid doubled-over in pain and sickness.

In response, the Impala swerved off the rain-slick road; the Chevy's right front tire roughly bouncing into a pothole and promptly being punctured by a sharp edge of asphalt.

"Sonuvabitch!" Dean swore sharply – because the last thing they needed right now was a flat tire – and stomped on the brakes; his hand in the center of Sam's chest to keep the kid from flying forward as the Impala skidded to a stop on the side of the highway; the right front portion of the car already beginning to sag as air rushed out of the gaping hole torn in the tire.

There was a beat of silence; both brothers breathing harshly but for different reasons.

From the passenger seat, Sam stared at Dean with wide, tearful eyes; his gaze flickering between his brother and the mess he had created in the car; his arms still protectively wrapped around his midsection as his stomach continued to cramp.

"M'sorry," Sam choked out before he threw up again; spewing more watery vomit across the bench seat and into the floorboard.

"Holy..."

But the rest of Dean's comment was lost amid Sam's retching.

Bobby frowned as he listened to the commotion in the Impala. "Dean..."

The answering silence was filled with the vaguely comforting sound of the wipers swishing back and forth across the windshield as they continued to dutifully clear the rain...along with the disturbing, unmistakable sound of Sam violently throwing up and Dean's voice murmuring in response; his words clearly intended for Sam, not Bobby.

Bobby's frown deepened; knowing Dean was busy tending to his sick little brother but still wanting – _needing_ – a reply. "Dean!"

A few seconds later, Dean snatched his cell phone from beside the brake pedal; it having fallen there during the Impala's not-so-smooth stop. "Gotta go, Bobby," he bluntly informed the older hunter on the opposite end of the phone. "I'll call you back. Sam's – "

But his voice faded as Sam threw up once more; the sick kid coughing and gagging and gasping as his breath was swept away in a bout of dry heaving.

Dean ended the call without further explanation – figuring Bobby already knew the gist of their situation – and slid the phone into the pocket of his leather jacket before reaching again for his brother. "Sam..."

Sam shook his head wildly and weakly pushed against Dean; one hand clamped over his mouth as he frantically opened the passenger side door and stumbled out into the rain.

"Shit. Sam!" Dean called after his brother and quickly exited the driver's side; thankful the Impala was sitting far enough away from passing traffic as he did so. "Sam..." he called again; squinting in the rain as fat drops pelted his face while he crossed to the puking kid on the opposite side of the car. "Sammy..."

Sam remained hunched over; his hands on his knees as he freshly threw up in the tall, wet grass; strands of saliva hanging from his mouth as he retched.

"Jesus..." Dean swore – because how much could one kid throw up in such a short span of time? – and instantly reached for his brother; wiping his fingers across Sam's mouth before one hand lightly wrapped around his brother's stomach to help support the kid while his other soothingly rubbed Sam's back.

"Dean..." Sam sobbed between gasping and puking.

"I know, Sammy. It's okay," Dean soothed; wishing he could take this misery from his brother. "I gotcha, kiddo. It'll pass. Just ride it out. I'm here..."

Sam nodded jerkily and then coughed; spitting and swallowing as he tried to delay the next round of the inevitable.

"Stop fighting it," Dean quietly scolded, shifting behind Sam as the kid lurched forward to retch again.

Dean cringed; willing Sam's nausea to indeed pass; to give the kid at least a few minutes of relief; wanting nothing more than to get Sam to Bobby's and to get the kid dry and settled.

Several minutes passed with the brothers maintaining their position; Dean holding Sam up as his little brother repeatedly puked on the side of the road in the chilly October rain.

"Sammy..." Dean prompted when it seemed the kid was finally finished. "Talk to me, kiddo. You okay?"

Sam swallowed and shook his head.

Dean frowned even though he expected such an answer; could feel his brother's stomach muscles quivering from exertion under his light touch as he continued to support the kid. "Tell me."

Sam inhaled a shaky breath and tried to straighten to his full height; grateful for Dean's help in doing so and for his brother's hands now resting on his shoulders and holding him steady. "I just..." He paused, swallowing against the urge to throw up once more. "I just really feel like crap."

Dean snorted at the understatement; the hunter part of him proud of Sam for trying to be brave and push through whatever illness was trying to turn the kid inside out...but the big brother part of him wanting to call bullshit.

Because Dean could see the lines of pain wrinkling Sam's forehead; could still see the flush of fever on the kid's damp cheeks; could see the way his brother convulsively swallowed against the lingering nausea and continued to protectively hold his arm over his tender right side.

Dean sighed as worry twisted his own stomach. "Well, you _look_ like crap," he lightly teased his brother and pulled the kid closer as Sam shivered; both of them completely drenched from having stood in the pouring rain over the past several minutes.

Sam tried to smile, though the expression looked more like a wince of pain. "Wow. Thanks," he replied dryly; even though he heard the worry in Dean's voice, while his own voice was hoarse from the abuse of forcefully vomiting over and over.

Dean affectionately squeezed the back of Sam's neck and then frowned as the kid shivered again. "Come on. Let's get back in the Impala," he told his brother, glancing over his shoulder at the passenger side door that had remained open from when Sam had hastily exited earlier. "I don't need you catching pneumonia on top of everything else," he fussed and pulled Sam in the direction of the car still waiting on the side of the highway; carefully steering the kid around the vomit splattered in the grass.

Sam immediately shook his head at the suggestion; wanting to throw up just thinking about getting back in the car that now reeked of vomit; the stench wafting from the open door even now making him swallow against the urge to gag.

"Dean. I can't."

Dean frowned as Sam resisted being moved any further. "Why not?"

Sam swallowed again. "I just can't," he insisted quietly. "It..." He swallowed once more. "It smells."

Dean barked a humorless laugh; surprised by how bitter he felt about what had happened but instantly understanding Sam's reluctance to return to the car since the last thing a queasy stomach needed was an overwhelmingly sour odor.

Dean sighed as he glanced through the passenger side door and was reminded of what awaited them inside. "Yeah," he agreed dryly about the Impala smelling like vomit...because it was _covered_ in vomit. "I'm sure it does. And I'm sure it will continue to smell for several days, thanks to you."

Tears once again sprang to Sam's eyes. "I'm sorry," he apologized; his tone genuine, his feelings hurt; knowing that while Dean was worried about him and would always put him first, his big brother was also pissed about the vomit-stained interior of his car. "I'm sorry..."

Dean clenched his jaw as he continued to scan the front seat of his car.

Because while he knew what had happened wasn't Sam's fault – the kid couldn't help if he was sick – it was still a fucking mess; puke absolutely everywhere inside the Impala.

"I'm sorry," Sam apologized again; tears now freely mixing with the rain that covered his face as the downpour continued. "Dean. I'm sorry..."

"I know," Dean soothed; hating to see his already sick, embarrassed little brother also getting upset over something the kid could not control. "It's okay, Sammy," he assured; meaning what he said. "I'm not mad at you. I just..." He shook his head. "It's okay," he repeated. "I should've pulled over sooner," he told his brother, taking his part of the blame. "After all, when you gotta puke, you gotta puke...right?"

Dean smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

Sam pushed his wet bangs away from his eyes and swallowed at his brother's mention of the word that described what he still felt like doing. "Please don't say 'puke'..."

Dean chuckled. "Fine," he agreed, swinging the Impala's passenger door shut so his brother wouldn't have to continue enduring the smell of vomit. "I won't say it, if you'll try not to do it."

Sam nodded – hoping he could keep his end of the bargain – and watched as Dean briefly left him beside the Impala and crossed to the trunk; pulling out a bottle of water from their green cooler along with an extra blanket and an umbrella that was rarely used.

"Here..." Dean told his brother; handing the bottle to Sam as he wrapped the blanket around the kid's narrow shoulders and then opened the umbrella with a push and a snap.

Sam swallowed once more as he stared at the bottle; his stomach turning flips at the idea of consuming something – even if it was just water.

Dean scowled at Sam's hesitation. "Just a few sips, Sam," he reasonably bargained, holding the umbrella over his brother. "At the rate you're throwing up, you'll be dehydrated before we get to Bobby's. And that ain't happening on my watch. You hear me?"

Sam sighed shakily, knowing that Dean was right...and that this wasn't up for discussion. "Yeah, okay," he agreed quietly and took a few cautious sips; holding his breath as he waited to see if they stayed down.

And amazingly, they did.

Dean nodded his approval. "See?" he asked knowingly; taking the water bottle back from his brother and sliding it into the pocket of his leather jacket. "I'm always right."

Sam rolled his eyes; laughing softly and then wincing as pain flared in his right side; drawing himself over to try to minimalize the discomfort seeming to settle between his navel and hip.

Dean frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Hurts," Sam confessed; his voice breathless as he rode out the wave of pain.

"It's okay," Dean soothed even as renewed worry made his heart beat faster.

Because the appendix was usually located right where Sam was currently holding his hands; protectively guarding what was clearly an extremely tender area.

Dean sighed. "Come here," he told his brother and leaned back against the passenger side of the Impala while pulling Sam closer under the umbrella; wrapping the blanket tighter around the kid while trying to tuck Sam beside him in an effort to help further shield his brother from the rain.

Sam sighed as well and leaned into Dean; resting against his brother's side. "Now what?" he asked, sounding hoarse and exhausted.

"That's easy," Dean assured his little brother. "We call for backup."

"Dad?"

Dean shook his head. "Bobby," he corrected. "I'll call Dad later."

Sam nodded tiredly; watching as Dean pulled his cell phone from the other pocket of his leather jacket and dialed a number; knowing his brother was calling Bobby to come get them due to the condition of the Impala's right front tire.

"I'm sorry," Sam quietly apologized and vaguely waved toward the damage.

"Not your fault, Sammy," Dean responded, continuing to hold the umbrella over himself and Sam while also holding the phone up to his ear. "I was driving, remember? I could've pulled over sooner."

Sam shrugged – that detail not making him feel any less guilty about what had happened to his brother's car – and sighed; feeling tired and cold and wet and sore all over...especially in the lower right side of his stomach.

Dean felt his brother lean more heavily against him and glanced at the kid as Bobby answered on the opposite end of the line.

"You two idjits better still be alive..." Bobby growled warningly into the phone.

Dean chuckled at the older hunter's gruff love and concern. "Well, hello to you, too, Bobby," he greeted sweetly. "Did you miss us?"

"Shut it," Bobby barked, and Dean could picture him tightly gripping the phone; having no patience for Dean's smartass comments. "How's Sam?"

Dean sighed; instantly serious at the mention of his brother. "He's hanging in there," he proudly reported even as he could feel Sam shiver beside him; the kid cold and wet from the rain but also still nursing a fever from whatever sickness was stubbornly sticking around and making him nauseous and miserable.

There was a beat of silence as Bobby deciphered the hidden message in Dean's words; hearing Dean's seemingly encouraging report about Sam's condition but also hearing the guarded worry.

"Is he still hurting on his right side?"

"Seems to be," Dean confirmed. "But at least he's not throwing up anymore right now."

Sam swallowed and sighed; shivering again as he pulled the blanket tighter around himself as he continued to stand beside Dean under the umbrella; leaning against the solid, reassuring, comforting presence of his big brother.

"You okay?" Dean quietly checked, glancing down at Sam.

Sam nodded.

Bobby listened; frowning as he realized that he could hear the surprisingly loud splatter of rain on what he guessed was an umbrella's nylon surface...but he did not hear the rumble of the Impala's engine over the line – which meant the boys were not back on the road and headed to his house but were instead standing in the rain like two dumbasses.

Bobby narrowed his eyes; knowing Dean wouldn't make his sick little brother endure crappy weather unless there was no other option and remembering Dean's sharp curse over the phone when Sam had first thrown up in the car; how it had sounded like the Impala had gone off the road in the seconds that had followed.

And suddenly it all made sense.

"Dean..."

Dean cringed at Bobby's tone as the older hunter realized what was going on. "We're fine," he assured. "Nothing some dry clothes and some rest won't fix. But the Impala..."

Dean allowed his voice to fade as he continued to lean against the Chevy's passenger side door and glanced over his shoulder at the mess inside the car and then glanced at the damaged front tire.

Bobby sighed; not needing Dean's explanation to know what had happened. "You two boys are the reason I don't have as much hair as I used to," he groused – even though he wouldn't change a thing – and snatched his keys from the hook beside the door. "I'm on my way."

Dean smiled. "Thanks, Bobby. We really appreciate it."

"Yeah, yeah..." Bobby replied dryly. "I'm awesome."

Dean chuckled as the older hunter ended the call; feeling a sense of relief in knowing Bobby was coming to get them – _all_ of them. "Including you, Baby..." he assured his car as he slipped his cell phone back in the pocket of his leather jacket.

Sam rolled his eyes but said nothing as he inched closer to Dean.

Dean lifted his arm and wrapped it around his brother as they continued to lean against the Impala; feeling Sam relax more against him; the rain lulling the kid into a light doze as it pattered on the umbrella Dean held over them.

Dean quirked a smile and tightened his hold around Sam; protectively supporting his exhausted, sick little brother as they waited for Bobby.

Almost 20 minutes later, their waiting was rewarded.

Dean felt a fresh wave of relief as Bobby's rusted, worn out wrecker rounded the corner and came into view; its headlights cutting through the haze of afternoon fog and rain.

"'Bout damn time..." Dean muttered – because he wanted his brother in bed, not standing in the rain – and rubbed Sam's back as the kid leaned against him. "Sammy..."

Bobby passed them and then eased the wrecker off the highway; backing the vehicle to the front of the Impala in preparation of hooking her up and hauling her back to Singer Salvage.

"Sammy..." Dean called again, glancing down at his brother. "Bobby's here."

Sam yawned and blinked up at Dean; swallowing and wrinkling his nose distastefully.

Dean frowned at the expression. "Sam..."

"M'okay," Sam replied hoarsely and swallowed again.

Dean looked doubtful but nodded as he steered his brother toward the waiting wrecker.

"You boys okay?" Bobby checked as he squinted in the rain and began securing the Impala to the wrecker's sling.

"Yeah," Dean replied casually, even as he meaningfully glanced at Sam to indicate that their youngest was far from okay.

Bobby nodded, receiving the message he had expected – that Sam's condition was still shaky at best. "I brought a bucket."

Dean chuckled at the response; amused by Bobby's bluntness and yet thankful for the older hunter's foresight. Because the last thing they needed was for Sam to throw up all over the wrecker, too.

"Thanks," Dean returned and guided his brother to the passenger side of Bobby's vehicle; wordlessly helping the kid into the cab of the wrecker and then handing Sam the small bucket that indeed waited in the floorboard. "Here, Sir Ralphs-A-Lot."

Sam scrunched his face as he accepted the bucket and held it in his lap. "Dean..."

"Relax," Dean soothed at the distress in Sam's voice. "It's just in case, Sammy. You'll be fine."

At least Dean _hoped_ the kid would be fine during the ride to Bobby's house.

Sam sighed and nodded; swallowing as he watched Dean climb up beside him; his brother collapsing the wet umbrella and then shaking it before tossing it to the floorboard and closing the passenger side door.

Behind them, Bobby continued to hook the Impala to the wrecker in the pouring rain.

A few minutes later, the older hunter finally joined the brothers in the cab of the wrecker; just as drenched as they were.

"Balls," Bobby swore and swiped his grungy ball cap from his head; ineffectively mopping the wetness from his forehead and face with his saturated sleeve before putting his hat back on.

Dean chuckled. "We know the feeling," he assured the older hunter.

Bobby grunted but said nothing more; instead turning his wipers to a higher speed as the rain seemed to fall harder and then checking traffic in his rearview mirror before merging onto the highway.

Sam sighed – the sound shaky but relieved as they finally resumed their trip to Bobby's house – and swallowed as he glanced down at the empty bucket in his lap.

Dean noticed – as did Bobby – and exchanged a worried glance with the older hunter before gently nudging Sam. "Hey. You okay?"

Sam nodded and leaned toward Dean; not feeling like he wanted to throw up right now but still feeling like crap and thus seeking the comfort and reassurance of his brother as he rested his head on Dean's shoulder.

Dean quirked a smile at the clingy kid sitting beside him in the wrecker and wrapped his arm around his little brother; soothingly rubbing Sam's blanket-covered back as they continued to ride down the highway and hoping the kid would start to feel better once they were settled at Bobby's.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


	4. Chapter 4

It was still raining half an hour later when Bobby eased the wrecker – and the Impala hooked behind it – off the highway and onto the road that led to Singer Salvage.

The squeak of the wipers on the windshield and Sam's slightly congested breathing as he slept against Dean mingled with the other sounds in the cab of the vehicle – the rattling of the bucket that had been moved from Sam's lap back to the passenger side floorboard after the kid had fallen asleep; the cranky grumble of the wrecker's old engine; the rumbly hiss of the tires on the wet pavement; the creaky springs beneath the torn fabric of the stained bench seat.

It was all familiar and soothing despite the lingering worry both Bobby and Dean felt over the potential seriousness of their youngest's condition.

Because if Sam really did have an inflamed appendix...

Dean sighed as the recurring fear once again crossed his mind and shifted in the seat as his wet clothes – still drenched from having stood in the rain earlier – clung to him; making him cold and uncomfortable...which was undoubtedly how Sam and Bobby felt, too, since their clothes were also saturated from the downpour.

Dean sighed once more; glancing down at Sam as the kid slept against him before glancing at Bobby behind the steering wheel; the older hunter's focus on the rain-slick road as he drove.

"Do you think he has appendicitis?"

Bobby arched an eyebrow at the sudden question but didn't look at Dean; instead keeping his gaze straight ahead as the rain continued to pour and wondering how long Dean had been obsessing over the possibility of that diagnosis as they had rode in silence.

Dean blinked expectantly. "Bobby..."

Bobby shrugged; knowing he needed to tread lightly with an already freaked out big brother. "Hard to say right now," he replied. "But that pain in his right side's got me worried," he added honestly. "Kids get stomach viruses all the time, but those viruses don't usually settle in one spot like that."

Dean nodded; having expected that answer because he figured the same.

There was a beat of silence; the wipers going back and forth across the windshield.

Dean swallowed, glancing again at Sam and then back at Bobby. "What do you think we should do?"

"What we always do," Bobby responded; his tone calm and matter-of-fact. "Wait and see."

"But what if we wait too long?" Dean pressed anxiously; unable to shake the feeling that they should be heading to the hospital instead of to Bobby's house.

Bobby smiled softly at Dean's candid concern over Sam; reminded that while Dean was confident and capable, he was still just a kid himself. And right now, he was a scared kid; a big brother scared about his little brother's seemingly deteriorating health.

And anybody who knew Dean knew that John's oldest could handle anything...except something happening to Sam.

Bobby sighed, feeling Dean's gaze across the wrecker's bench seat. "We won't," he reassured about them waiting too long to see how Sam's condition progressed.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the simple answer but didn't respond; instead tightening his hold around his brother as Sam shifted and sighed in his sleep.

"Dean..."

Dean nodded that he had heard Bobby but still didn't speak; staring out the passenger side window and deciding that if Sam wasn't better by the time John arrived at Bobby's house later that night, then he was going to insist they take the kid to the hospital.

Because nothing bad was happening to Sam – not as long as Dean was around.

Dean nodded again – agreeing with his plan – and then directed his attention back to Sam; briefly palming the sleeping kid's forehead and frowning at the heat he felt there...then smiling fondly when his brother shifted again, leaning into his touch.

"And?"

Dean's smile widened at Bobby's expectant tone; having known the older hunter was watching him check Sam's temperature. "Still feverish," he reported and brushed Sam's bangs from his eyes as he lowered his hand. "You said you have children's Tylenol, right?"

"Right," Bobby confirmed. "Should be in the downstairs bathroom."

Dean nodded; picturing the cluttered medicine cabinet in that particular bathroom at Bobby's house. "Depending on how Sam feels, we might use that bathroom to clean up," he commented; thinking aloud.

"Sounds good," Bobby agreed. "No need to make him climb stairs if he don't feel like it."

"Exactly," Dean returned; figuring he could get Sam showered and changed downstairs and then get the kid settled either in the extra bedroom or on the couch. "You said you had crackers, right?"

"A whole box of 'em. And ginger ale..." Bobby added.

"Good," Dean praised; knowing the tricky part was going to be getting Sam to actually eat and drink what they had for him.

"You called your daddy yet?" Bobby asked as the wrecker – and the Impala towed behind it – bounced from the paved road to the muddy driveway that would eventually end at his doorstep.

"Not yet," Dean answered, glancing down at Sam as his brother shifted beside him; the noticeable change from the smooth asphalt to the bumpy path beginning to stir the kid awake.

Bobby nodded at Dean's response; feeling strangely pleased that he had been the first person Dean had called when the boys were in trouble – not John. And while Bobby knew Dean would call their dad later once Sam was settled, there was still a sense of satisfaction that he – Uncle Bobby – had come to their rescue while John was out doing god-knew-what.

Bobby quirked a smile to himself before glancing at the squirming 12-year old sitting between him and John's oldest. "He waking up?"

"He needs to," Dean responded bluntly. "'Cause I'm not carrying his scrawny ass inside the house."

"Yeah. Sure you ain't..." Bobby chuckled even before Dean winked at him; both of them knowing Dean would do whatever Sam needed him to do.

Dean smiled and then rubbed Sam's back; feeling the dampness of the kid's clothes from beneath the blanket still wrapped around his brother and being freshly reminded that they all needed to change. "Sammy. Wake up, kiddo. We're almost at Bobby's."

Sam hummed a sleepy response; wallowing his face against Dean's shoulder before finally blinking open his eyes and sighing.

"Howdy, sunshine," Dean greeted cheerfully; masking his concern as Sam's face instantly twisted in pain now that the kid was awake. "Sammy..."

Sam swallowed and wrapped his arms around his stomach; shifting uncomfortably on the seat.

Dean frowned; having hoped they could make it to Bobby's house without Sam needing the bucket but reaching for it now as it rested between his feet in the passenger side floorboard and shoving it back in Sam's lap.

Sam scowled weakly and cut his eyes at Dean. "Stop," he protested and pushed the bucket away. "I'm okay. I don't need it."

"Famous last words," Dean quipped and kept the bucket where it was in Sam's lap; easily resisting his brother's refusal.

Sam glared but said nothing more; swallowing again as the wrecker dipped into one of the many mud puddles lining the driveway; his queasy stomach not reacting well to such sudden movements...especially not so soon after just waking up.

"Almost there," Dean quietly soothed, noticing Sam's repeated swallowing and the way the kid was breathing through his mouth; Sam having said he didn't need the bucket but was now leaning over it.

Sam coughed and then unexpectedly dry heaved; the forceful sound echoing in the empty bucket resting in his lap.

Dean cringed as Sam dry heaved again...and then again; his body seeming to fall into an unwanted rhythm. "Easy, Sammy."

Sam gasped noisily and then reached for Dean; one hand remaining over his stomach while the other rested on Dean's leg and fisted his brother's jeans; desperate for strength and comfort as he rode out this most recent wave of misery.

"It's okay..." Dean told his little brother and rubbed the kid's back before glancing at Bobby; thankful the older hunter was keeping his gaze straight ahead through the rain-slick windshield and was thus giving him and Sam as much privacy as possible in the cramped space of the wrecker's cab.

Sam dry heaved twice more and then swallowed audibly; inhaling a shaky breath before lifting his head and looking at Dean; his expression silently pleading for his brother to make everything better as his right hand maintained a tight grip on Dean's leg.

Dean smiled encouragingly and squeezed the back of Sam's neck. "It's okay," he repeated – hoping if he said it enough both he and Sam would believe it – and then nodded at the windshield to indicate Bobby's house as it finally came into view.

Sam blinked and directed his attention forward; feeling a burst of relief at the sight of the only home he had ever known outside of the Impala and the occasional stop at Pastor Jim's house.

There was silence as Bobby brought the wrecker to a careful stop and then glanced over at the brothers as he waited for Dean's instructions; more than willing to help with Sam but knowing better than to assume such help was needed...or even welcomed.

Because whether or not Dean would ever admit it, he was worse than a proverbial Momma Bear when it came to others interfering with his care of Sam.

And Bobby had no desire to get his head snapped off.

Dean quirked a knowing smile at Bobby's hesitation. "I've got him," he assured the older hunter about Sam and vaguely gestured at the Impala behind them. "But maybe you could get our duffels...?"

Bobby nodded – glad he could help with _something_ – and awkwardly dug the Chevy's keys from his pocket where he had stashed them earlier after he had hooked the car to the wrecker on the side of the road several miles back.

In the next instant, Bobby opened the driver's side door and ducked out into the rain that continued to pour; leaving the brothers alone in the cab of the wrecker.

Dean sighed – listening to the familiar creak of the Impala's trunk as Bobby lifted the lid in search of their duffels – and then lightly nudged his brother still sitting beside him. "Hey. You ready?"

Sam swallowed and nodded; uncurling his hand from where he had continued to grip Dean's jeans and watching as Dean reached around him; placing the bucket in the driver's seat to make more room and then opening the passenger side door.

"Gimme a sec..." Dean commented as he exited the wrecker; his boots sinking into the mud of Bobby's driveway while he retrieved the umbrella from the floorboard and opened it again in preparation of transferring Sam to the house.

Sam's attention flickered to the windshield; watching as Bobby ran up the steps of his porch – surprisingly fast to escape the rain – and then smiling as he saw who greeted the older hunter as the door of his house swung open.

"It's Rumsfeld."

Dean briefly glanced over his shoulder at Sam's mention of Bobby's Rottweiler puppy; knowing the 12-year old kid and the one-year old dog had an equal adoration for each other...but also knowing Sam couldn't handle Rumsfeld's typical rough affection right now.

Because the last thing Sam needed was a playful, well-meaning, overgrown puppy pouncing on his tender stomach with giant paws...like Rumsfeld usually did since he was already so big, and Sam was still so short.

Sam frowned as Bobby returned to the door – having dropped off their duffels somewhere in the house – and grabbed Rumsfeld's collar as the dog continued to stand in the doorway; wagging his tail and curiously looking toward the wrecker.

"Why's he holding him like that?"

Dean resisted the urge to nod his approval of Bobby restraining his dog; glad they seemed to be on the same wavelength about a sick kid and a rambunctious puppy not mixing well.

"Probably doesn't want him in the rain," Dean answered smoothly and motioned for his brother. "Come on."

Sam nodded and slowly eased across the wrecker's bench seat; allowing Dean to help him down from the vehicle and gasping softly when doing so jarred his right side.

Dean frowned; his hand hovering behind Sam's back in case the kid needed support. "You okay?" he checked; waiting for Sam to nod before closing the passenger side door and steering his brother toward the house; the rain pattering on the umbrella as their shoes squelched in the mud.

Seconds later, they were on the porch; Dean collapsing the umbrella and dropping it beside the door while pushing Sam further into the house.

"You boys get those shoes off," Bobby grumbled, having already taken off his; standing in his socks – his big toe peeking out from the hole in the seam of the right one – and scowling at the mud caked on the sides of the brothers' worn shoes. "I just mopped these floors yesterday."

"And just look at them sparkle and shine," Dean responded in amazement – 100% smartass in his tone and expression – and then chuckled as Bobby's scowl deepened.

Dean's smile lingered as he crouched to unlace Sam's sneakers – not wanting his brother to put unnecessary strain on his stomach by bending over himself – and then waited patiently as the kid grasped his shoulder.

Sam smiled shyly – grateful for how Dean always thought of everything to make things easier for him...especially when he was sick – and held onto his brother for balance as he took off his sneakers; watching as Dean then took off his boots before sliding both pairs of shoes into the corner by the door.

"Better?" Dean asked and quirked a smile as he and Sam stood side-by-side in their socks.

Bobby didn't answer but instead moved on to other matters. "I've got you boys set up in the extra bedroom for now," he informed the brothers as he closed the front door; still holding onto a struggling Rumsfeld while vaguely pointing down the hall. "Y'all know where everything is, so make yourselves at home. I'm gonna put this mutt in the kitchen and then go out and see about your car."

"He's not a mutt," Sam defended, holding his hand out toward the dog. "He's a good boy. Aren't you, Rummy?"

Dean and Bobby simultaneously rolled their eyes at Sam's nickname for the dog even as Rumsfeld eagerly licked Sam's hand.

"Mutt or not, he's still goin' in the kitchen for now," Bobby replied dryly.

Sam scrunched his face in disappointment. "Sorry, Rummy..." he told the dog and affectionately scratched behind the Rottweiler's ears.

Rumsfeld leaned into Sam's touch and grunted; his back leg shaking in pleasure as Sam's fingers dug into just the right spot.

Dean smiled as he watched the interaction between Sam and Rumsfeld; glad to see his brother happier than he had seen the kid all day.

Bobby smiled as well and lingered in the hall; allowing Sam and Rumsfeld a few extra minutes together.

Dean glanced at Bobby. "You don't have to worry about the Impala," he told the older hunter. "I can take care of her later."

Even though he certainly wasn't looking forward to that chore...

"Or I can take care of her now," Bobby countered; his tone indicating the decision was already made. "You've got more important things to take care of now...and later," he added, glancing meaningfully at Sam as the kid continued to scratch the dog's ears.

Dean nodded his agreement and then smiled his appreciation; because only family volunteered to clean up what Bobby was about to clean up. "Thanks. _Really_."

Bobby chuckled and shrugged. "I've cleaned up worse," he commented – resisting the urge to shudder at the reminder of that hunt a few years ago in Omaha with Rufus – and then lightly shook Rumsfeld's collar from where he still held the dog beside him. "Come on, mutt. Let's let these boys get changed and settled."

"Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby nodded over his shoulder; once again acknowledging Dean's gratitude. "I'll be outside if you need me."

Dean returned the nod.

Sam watched as Bobby led Rumsfeld toward the back of the house. "He can come out later, right?"

"Maybe. We'll see how you feel later..." Dean countered – because if Sam was throwing up later, then no way was the dog coming out to bother the kid – and lightly pushed his brother in the direction of the extra bedroom.

"I feel fine," Sam scoffed; surprised that he actually meant it; the nausea having dramatically decreased since he had dry heaved in the wrecker. "Really, Dean," he emphasized when his brother looked at him doubtfully. "I'm fine."

"For now..." Dean added ominously – knowing it was only a matter of time before sickness struck again – and took the blanket from Sam's shoulders as they entered the bedroom; reaching for his brother's duffel as he tossed the damp blanket on the bed. "Here..."

Sam accepted his bag and yawned. "I'm tired."

"I know," Dean agreed; because anybody that had vomited as much as Sam had that morning had to be exhausted. "After you shower and change and eat..." He paused; making sure Sam knew eating was part of the plan. "...then you can sleep. Either in here or on the couch…"

Sam nodded and yawned again as he turned to leave the room.

"Don't lock the bathroom door...and don't take too long," Dean called after his brother. "And turn your clothes inside out..." he added, because Sam's hoodie and jeans had splatters of vomit from earlier. "And for god's sake, brush your teeth."

"Yeah, yeah..." Sam answered inside another yawn and disappeared into the hall.

Dean followed behind. "I'm gonna call Dad and let him know we're here and what's going on," he told his brother as Sam made his way to the bathroom. "But if you need me, then – "

" – I'll send up a Bat signal..." Sam interrupted and then laughed at his own joke; smiling over his shoulder at Dean before closing the bathroom door.

Dean scowled but chuckled – encouraged that Sam felt like being a smartass – and lingered in the hall until he heard the shower turn on.

Dean nodded his approval, feeling confident that Sam was managing okay for now, and crossed back to the bedroom; taking off his leather jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair in the corner to begin drying.

Dean sighed as he stared at his rain-streaked jacket and then glanced out the window as he heard the wrecker crank; watching as Bobby backed the Impala into the garage to begin the messy job of cleaning her interior and then fixing her flat.

"Thanks, Bobby..." Dean murmured – because he really couldn't say it enough – and then turned from the window; pulling his cell phone from his jacket's pocket and dialing John's number.

As the phone rang, Dean went back into the hallway; knowing Sam would bitch about him hovering but unable to stop himself; wanting to be nearby in case the kid needed him.

Because experience had taught that just because Sam felt fine a few seconds ago didn't mean the kid would continue to feel fine.

Like in the Impala...

Dean shook his head at the memory and sighed; hearing Rumsfeld whine behind the closed kitchen door down the hall and then snapping his attention to John as his dad's voice suddenly came over the line.

"Dean? You and Sam at Bobby's?"

Dean nodded. "Yes, sir. Finally."

"Finally?" John repeated; concern in his tone, and Dean could picture him checking his watch; John having been so involved in whatever he was doing that he hadn't even noticed that Dean was calling him later than he should have. "Everything okay?"

"For now..." Dean answered guardedly and then huffed a laughed. "But it's been one hell of a trip since we left the truck stop."

John paused; the intensity of his frown almost audible. "Meaning...?"

"Well..." Dean began, slowly pacing outside the bathroom door as he listened to the shower continue to run. "For one thing, it started raining...which sucked enough. But then you know how we were joking about Sam throwing up in the Impala?"

"Oh, hell. Don't tell me..."

"Yeah," Dean confirmed; not keeping his dad in suspense. "Vomit as far as the eye could see."

John chuckled at Dean's description; as if his oldest was waxing poetic about a field of daisies. "Wow. Hate I missed that."

"It was a sight to behold," Dean replied dryly and then cringed at the memory of watery, red-tinged puke covering the Impala's dash, bench seat, and floorboard.

God bless Bobby Singer for volunteering to clean it up.

"I'm sure," John agreed about what had happened on the road; not even wanting to imagine such a scene as Dean had implied. "Where's Sam now? Is he okay?"

"He seems to be," Dean reported and glanced at the closed bathroom door as the shower remained on. "Bobby came to get us since the Impala also has a flat tire now...long story, I'll tell you later...but we just got back to his house. Sam's taking a shower."

"Good," John praised; vaguely wondering how the Impala had ended up with a flat tire but more concerned about his youngest. "That should help him feel better," he commented about Sam's current location.

Dean nodded; already looking forward to his turn under the warm water after Sam was settled and more than ready to get out of his own damp clothes.

"Has he thrown up since the Impala?"

Dean nodded again at John's question about Sam. "Oh, yeah. For about five minutes on the side of the road after that and then a round of dry heaving in the wrecker on the way here."

John sighed harshly at the news. "Has he been drinking water?"

"A little."

"Dean..." John sighed again; frustration and worry instantly sharpening his tone. "What did I tell you? You need to keep him hydrated or – "

" – I know," Dean interrupted; his tone equally sharp; not in the mood to hear John tell him how to take care of Sam. "I'm gonna make sure he eats and drinks something before he goes back to sleep. And he's getting a fresh dose of Tylenol. And I'm keeping a watch on everything else from his fever to his level of pain." He paused. "I'm on it, Dad. I got this. It's not the first time Sam's been sick."

"I know that," John snapped. "But it _is_ the first time we've suspected appendicitis. And if we miss the signs, Sam could get worse and be in serious trouble before we even realize there's a problem. Do you want his appendix to rupture?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?" Dean demanded; anger making his heart pound; pissed that his dad would tempt fate by saying that possibility aloud.

"I'm just saying – "

" – well, save it," Dean coolly advised and then sighed; swallowing another smartass retort and willing himself to calm down; having more important things to focus on than dealing with John's dumbass comments.

John sighed as well. "Dean..."

"What?" Dean replied brusquely; glancing again at the bathroom door when the shower shut off and the curtain rings clanked together as Sam undoubtedly reached for his towel to dry off.

John paused on the opposite end of the line, and Dean could picture his dad arching a disapproving eyebrow at the impudence in his voice.

There was more silence as John sighed again, clearly trying to reign in his own temper; both father and oldest son on edge due to their youngest's condition.

Dean shook his head in annoyance as he continued to hold his phone to his ear; his attention once again focusing on the bathroom door as he heard Sam move around in the small space behind it while the kid got dressed in his sleep clothes even though it was still early afternoon.

"I'll be there later tonight," John finally said; sounding surprisingly tired.

The somewhat defeated tone made something twist in Dean's chest; because he knew John was just concerned and was dealing with the situation the way he always did – by giving orders he expected to be obeyed.

But Dean wasn't interested in being a good solider right now; because being a big brother was far more important today...and he didn't need any instructions on how to fulfill that duty.

"Dean..."

"Yeah," Dean acknowledged indifferently. "We'll see you later tonight," he confirmed to John and was about to say more when Sam suddenly coughed; the strangled, almost panicked sound echoing against the tile of the bathroom.

Dean frowned and tilted his head; listening intently in the hallway and feeling his heart beat faster with dread.

Because coughing usually led to something far more unpleasant when Sam had a recent history of being nauseous...

"Oh, god. Not again..." Dean muttered and stepped closer to the door. "Sammy..."

"What's wrong?" John immediately asked; hearing the urgency in his oldest's voice as Dean called Sam's name. "Dean..."

But Dean didn't answer; still listening as Sam coughed again and then as expected...

"Shit," Dean hissed at the unmistakable sound of dry heaving filtering through the door.

"Is that Sam?" John demanded; clearly disturbed that he could hear his youngest gagging over the phone...and through a closed door. "Dean!"

"Yeah, that's him..." Dean replied distractedly. "I gotta go, Dad."

Whatever John said in response was lost as Dean ended the call and slipped the phone into the pocket of his jeans before entering the bathroom; not bothering to knock and not caring what Sam thought about his privacy being invaded.

But Sam made no reaction to Dean's abrupt entrance; his face hidden behind his damp, floppy hair as his head bowed over the sink while his hands braced against the counter on either side; his back arched as his body forcefully retched; only remnants of bile and spit actually coming up...and then nothing – just bouts of dry heaving over and over.

Dean cringed at the painful sound as it continued to echo in the small space of the bathroom and instantly reached for his brother. "So much for feeling fine...huh, Sammy?" he asked, rubbing the kid's quivering back through his t-shirt.

Sam swallowed and coughed. "Dean..." he sobbed and then gasped; leaning slightly to the right as pain shot through his side.

"It's okay," Dean soothed. "Just try to relax, kiddo..." he further urged.

Sam breathed harshly through his mouth. "Bobby – "

" – is still outside," Dean informed; knowing his brother was concerned about the older hunter hearing him get sick yet again; as if gagging over a bucket in the wrecker hadn't been enough embarrassment for one day. "Don't worry about it, okay? It's just you and me...and Rumsfeld."

Sam briefly smiled at the mention of Bobby's dog and then coughed before retching three more times.

"Easy..." Dean murmured; his hand rubbing back and forth between Sam's bony shoulders. "Easy, easy, easy..."

Sam seemed to respond to his brother's quiet chant; sighing shakily and swallowing as he closed his eyes and willed himself to get a grip; desperately wanting to break the cycle of dry heaving and silently commanding his stomach muscles to relax.

Several minutes passed with Dean standing behind his brother as Sam hovered over the sink; rubbing the kid's back and waiting for Sam to tell him whatever he needed.

Sam swallowed again; trying to ignore how much his stomach continued to cramp in the aftermath. "Dean..."

"Yeah, Sammy..."

"I..." Sam swallowed once more; his throat incredibly sore and dry. "I think I'm done."

"You sure?" Dean checked; not in the mood to have his little brother throw up on him.

Sam nodded cautiously and pushed himself away from the counter; feeling shaky and weak as he blinked up at Dean.

Dean brushed Sam's bangs from his eyes; briefly palming his brother's forehead as his gaze swept over Sam; not liking how warm the kid still felt and how pale, flushed, and generally unwell Sam looked.

Sam swallowed. "My head hurts," he commented and squinted as he felt the pain throb in his temples and behind his eyes; a side effect of throwing up, made worse by his fever. "And I'm thirsty."

"I bet," Dean agreed; knowing both complaints were probably understatements and recognizing his opportunity to push fluids...and food. "What d'ya say we get you some ginger ale?"

Sam wrinkled his nose in rejection. "Apple juice?" he asked instead; his tone that of hopeful, bargaining five-year old.

"Maybe later," Dean promised, having expected that response from his little brother. "Ginger ale is better for you right now. Let's see how that does first." He paused. "And maybe a couple of crackers, too..."

Sam wrinkled his nose again and reflexively wrapped his arm around his stomach at the mention of food. "Dean..."

"You need to eat something, Sammy," Dean reasonably argued. "I think that's part of the problem you just had. You haven't eaten anything since last night, and your scrawny body is running on empty, dude."

Sam swallowed at the idea of choking down food only to have it most likely come back up within minutes.

"You'll be fine," Dean assured – reading his brother's thoughts – and then encouragingly squeezed Sam's bony shoulder.

"Easy for you to say," Sam grumbled and swallowed again.

Dean chuckled. "Well, if it comes back up..." He shrugged. "We'll deal with it. Won't be the first time today, right? Maybe Bobby will bring the bucket inside."

Sam scowled. "Nice, Dean."

Dean chuckled again and affectionately ruffled Sam's floppy, shower-damp hair. "Come on."

Sam sighed but smiled as he turned to reach for his duffel still resting on the lid of the closed toilet from where he had set it earlier.

"Leave it," Dean told his brother – eager to get Sam fed and settled – and pulled the kid out of the bathroom and down the hallway toward the kitchen. "I'll take care of that later. Right now, it's chowtime," he informed cheerfully and kept his movements slow and careful as he steered Sam toward Bobby's kitchen.

* * *

><p><em><strong>TBC<strong>_


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